


December 27, 1944

by RhetoricFemme



Series: JeanMarco World War II AU [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gen, WWII AU, fighter pilot!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: Plane intact and his boots back on the ground, Captain Jean Kirschstein sets off in search of some desperately needed time alone.
Series: JeanMarco World War II AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429804
Kudos: 8





	December 27, 1944

Jean is exhausted when he climbs out of the plane. He kicks purposefully at the shards of ice that have been collecting on the floor of the cockpit. Crystalized breath that had frozen inside of his oxygen mask in mid flight, every last sliver full of bated breath and terror shattering underfoot. The ice falls out of the B-17 after Jean, breaking one more time as his boots grind their glisten into filth and dust to be blown away by the cold.

Jean stretches his limbs after being sardined into the front of Ole Miss for the entire day. Sighs at the way his twenty-four year old body has begun to crack and groan. But at least he’d brought everyone back home. He accounts for the voices of his co-pilot and navigator. The comforted laughter of the radio operator, his gunners and bombardier all walking closely behind him.

Personally, Jean has run almost the entirety of his tour. It’s a feat fewer and fewer of their men reach, and Jean has lost more brothers in arms than he’ll ever care to admit.

On this day, each soul Jean had taken up with him for this run had safely come back down again. It’s more than he can say for the Luftwaffe they’d unceremoniously sent falling back through the clouds.

Or his last crew, for that matter.

Jean had embarked on this mission holding on tight to the comfort of knowing none of his engines were as yet shot out. He’d counted the crew blessed for not having to fall out of formation this time around, all while watching neighboring planes go down.

On this run the floor of their plane had started out clean, and would not necessitate a hose to wash away their bombardier’s blood. Jean had played two roles that previous flight—commandeering the crew into position and holding them steady, before being the one to deploy their bombs onto the enemy. He always did his best not to catch the faces piloting the Junkers they’d targeted. On that day, Jean’s most difficult battle had been to not to close his eyes with every bomb he’d dropped before guiding them back home.

He’d flown that disparaging mission hardly a week ago. Slept his grief off on a stained canvas cot, then climbed into the cockpit all over again. He’d barely time enough to get his feet back on the ground before being commanded to fly a milk run only a few hours later.

But on this day, Jean had made out good enough to bring Ole Miss and all ten of her boys back home.

Jean is grateful. But he isn’t proud.

And so he focuses on the crisp sound of his boots as they crunch through the gravel. Takes a moment to feel the warmth of the medals laying on his chest, and he smiles inward because for all the grief and exhaustion he hasn’t forgotten what today is.

He’s only moments away from taking some time for himself. From putting aside the harsh fact that there is a war on and finding the necessary space to contemplate where he is this Advent. 

For everything he’d pushed away, for every tradition he’s scrutinized whether to carry with him or to bury with his mother and father, Advent had been the one Jean had clung to. It would never be the same, no, but it remained his. Through joy and pain, Jean knew that traditions existed to be tailored and reshaped in a way that could keep whatever was left of his faith and his parents alive.

Relief melts through Jean’s muscles the moment he enters the hangar, still cold but shielded from the elements. He takes a deep breath, feels the tension ease out of his shoulders. For the first time in recent memory Jean allows himself to slow down.

He even finds the grace to spare a nod as he crosses paths with a familiar face. A young Frenchman whose aerial skill is as recognized as his haughty, self-entitled demeanor.

“Captain Forster.” Jean greets him politely. He doesn’t have to like the obnoxious pilot to allot him a certain amount of respect. At the very least, Jean is glad to see he isn’t dead yet. “Merry Christmas.”

Their shoulders collide while walking by, and Jean almost regrets his cordial manner when his fellow pilot decides to respond derisively.

“Where’ve they had you, Kirsch?”

It’s asinine at best. Jean can think of myriad ways to answer, though his better judgement suggests he remain silent. His body is already poised to walk away.

The Frenchman looks him over, eyes full of cynicism and a critical gaze.

Captain Jean Kirschstein of the 104th Air Assault Division. An increasingly quiet, if not still sharp-tongued member of the Wings of Freedom. Captain Kirschstein is known less for trading combat stories or taking up with local women, and more for telling nosy infantrymen to kindly fuck off.

What a waste.

“Anyways.” Captain Forster smirks. “You missed it. Christmas was two days ago.”

A light goes out inside Jean’s chest, buried deep away where nobody will ever see it. He won’t allow his shoulders to slump, or the ache between his ribs to show. There will be no indication of disappointment or loss on Jean’s behalf.

Not once in the nine years he’s been without his parents has he forgone this one Christmas tradition.

It had often been all Jean had needed, and with the added assurance that he is alive to partake in it, Jean tells himself the rest of those logistics and details don’t have to mean a thing.

Jean straightens his spine, instead. Tells himself it’s only the name of a holiday printed on a calendar. He feigns indifference when he tells Captain Forster that the sentiment remains, then proceeds to walk away.

He’ll still be on his way to privately contemplate difficult situations. He’ll find somewhere discreet to dust off long ignored emotions by the light of an old tapered candle. As it has always been for Jean, it remains no one’s business but his own.


End file.
